Outsource

Last night did something new. Went out with some new people. B and his renegade pals. I'd been promised a soiree. We stayed up late lacing our bodies with a variety of substances, walked around in Ecclesall Cemetery and climbed on a bus stop. I know it was fun but I don't remember many details. Most importantly I know why I was on top of the bus stop.

Tonight I am out again.

Trying to say things. Words and sentences are old tools for a close approximation.

I'm thinking a lot about time. The nature of being a nowist vs a futurist. I am not a futurist. I remain deliberatly naive about the future. Plans and schemes feel heavy, oppressive. I love the now. I love this moment I'm in. I love the moment. I'm looking out over Sheffield right now in the evening. I'm going out soon to see friends. The now is fine. But what do you want. There is a problem of being committed to the now and that's that you are unprepared. Totally unprepared.

There's a girl. I know if she crosses my path I'll be scrambled. Being in the now makes you very vulnerable. Like writing. If you live in the now of the sentence it lives its own weaving rambling arabesque and any sense of an over arching thesis is lost. And this is very unsatisfying for the reader. A concept of the future is invaluable. It means you won't put too much emphasis on the moment. Living for the moment means every instant is about seeking to optimise the body's pleasures and satisfactions out of fear. A kind of paranoid and fervid hunger.

With a concept of the future i can keep perspective, not put too much onus on the moment and take it as a small block in the building. Life is a sandcastle that is never finished. I need to keep moulding and sculpting and shaping with my vision in mind. Demand precise attention to detail. I may spend hours shaping the turrets.

Love is here. Good evening. The Thundo lickers. Our favourite band. OOooooooh, aaaaaaaah. I love the klaxons- to my shame. I just want to fight and dance and stand. The bass is kelting. The Klaxons are fantastic. Thank fuck for them. The blog.

Apologies perverts. Ogle over my luscious cock.

Knuckle Dust by Don Delillo

The men had gathered in the public house to relax and speak after work. They huddled close to the window and relaxed happily into conversation and drink. They were held in a place between mid-afternoon and evening and no-one had any desire to be anywhere else.

Nick sat at the heart of the group. "How was work?"
"Same old shit."

The same easy tones and reasurring phrases to mark their place in the week.

The fight broke out seemlessly and at once. The drunks set upon the drunks, pounded fists into faces and blood was exchanged on shirts. Shouts and bodies piled in and were scattered by affray. The old calls of 'leave it,' 'calm down'denied by squirming bodies and elbows.

The exchange collapses under its own weight, deflates under its own tension. Adrenaline only goes so long. The short quick outbust. The shots ring out. All moves happening too quickly. The spontanaeity of action preceding thought.

In the aftermath, men stood; onlookers outwaying the fighters made awkward by their numbers. The victorious party scarpers, ambling away indulgently. The other human remains, standing defiantly.

The crowd murmers to itslef and is aware of its need to act. Is he ok. What should we do. What wankers. Do you think we should stay. Where is X. I saw it all. They just went at him. And history begins to take shape. Friends cross-examine each other to confirm what they have seen. Interpreters of what they have seen.

He said he had a knuclke duster. They were just looking for an excuse. He's the kind of guy who would though, I know him. I know him. I knew those guys were trouble.

And as the witnesses spill away, the highlight of their evening is retold and retold. To friends, we saw a fight in the dog and penguin earlier. Really what happened. He threw a punch. There was blood. The police were involved. I've got blood on my jeans. New details eke out. The story comes to rest.

The people who spoke at length.

Spare Parts.

Low impact.

The therapist. Bought intimacy. Pseudo intimate relationship. Therapee getting great sense of connection. The other no personal investment. Satisfatction bought.

"I'm always here if you need me," she said. "That's the problem," I said. The problem comes from the need to conquer intimacty. Intimacy is an illness and a need.

The difference is I don't want to fuck my therapist. I don't crave his fit ass.

Vision/Wants
I don't want to be here.
By not being here all my problems will be solved.

Nothing prevents happiness like the memory of happiness

One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.

Sin is whatever obscures the soul

The most decisive actions of life are most often unconsidered actions.

There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them.

"Therefore" is a word the poet must not know.

Through loyalty to the past, our mind refuses to realize that tomorrow's joy is possible only if today's makes way for it; that each wave owes the beauty of its line only to the withdrawal of the preceding one.

What another would have done as well as you, do not do it. What another would have said as well as you, do not say it; what another would have written as well, do not write it. Be faithful to that which exists nowhere but in yourself-and thus make yourself indispensable.

Work and struggle and never accept an evil that you can change.

Art is the collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better.

I had a dream last night.

On a wim, I had decided to go to France to travel. I arrived at the ferry depot too late and had to wait to take the firt one in the morning. When I arrived, I found that several of my friends were already there first. We were in some town which was half Paris, and half some beach side town. Two of my best and oldest male friends were already there, S and H. S, the consumate consumer, traveller who is always ahead of me, confidently at home in these foreign dwellings. And, H, who was relaxed but more nervy. I love these guys even if S does intimidate me with his largesse.

Then there were the girls S and H. S had been there a long time. Right at home in Paris. H had decided that she was now a lesbian and spoke of the relief and freedom to be free from the nasty imbalances of heterosexual love. Her hair kept changing. She was more hippyish with blonde and blue dreadlocks at one point. She looked less pretty than i remembered with no make up but still brought all the tenderness back nonetheless. My male friend S had footage on his phone of the two girls tonguing each other in a cafe and laughing.

All quite merry and forcing me to accept that, while some things are very different, some are very the same and I have to roll with the times.

The next day her body throbbed and ached tenderly, each pulse keeping the previous nights events close to the surface.

After repeating the practice the body did not ache so much as throb calmly satisfied and the feeling became more familiar.

After the split and time wore on, the body was forcibly starved and seemed to ache hungrily for replenishment. A different throbbing now which spoke of an absence. The physical longing.

Time would see the pangs quieten.

Others kept their bodies on a constant drip feed of sex and cock.

Things and memory. Things and memory. Things connected to memory. Condoms and lube and everything. Things. Belle and Sebastian. A person, a friend, an ex lover. All things are connected to other people. Condoms and Lube are the worst because they remind me of the replacable nature of bodies. Looking at a condom will remind you of the last time you looked at a condom and thus the last time you fucked. Thus you bring that memory into the new experience. The new experience is compromised by you sharing the new moment with a memory of the former. Different hands to fit the same glove. The glove is the sheaf, the cover, the mask, the surface, the performance. It is the same thing. Different puppeteers inside the performance puppet. But the puppet repeats the same performance, the same act, for your pleasure. Different bodies, replacable for the same duties.

Like repeating the same acts. The similar dialogues, the same tactics, the drinks, the weekend breaks, the moans, the sharing of dreams and jokes.

She decided to reclaim her body as apart of reclaiming her independence. She took revenge with her body, aggressively, coolly fucking her way through a series of anonymous lovers, to vigorously scratch out his touches that lingered lightly traced on her body. As she lay drifting off to sleep that night, she lay her hand on her waist, which he had always loved to caress. This place which had been associated so painfully with him was now reinscribed, the memory scrambled by a series of drunken half images, vying for position, where vague happy lusting faces merged with Chagall-ian effect, flickering, strobing like a mosaic, of abstract greens, reds and purples, disavowing his cruel monopoloy over her.

It was hellish but not altogether unpleasent. At least it was an alternate chaos to the exhaustion of the perpetually unsatisfying tunnelled focused love she had used her body with before in devotion to him. So that was something.

Whose your favourite author and why?

I like Milan Kundera because he articulates the complicated unruly logic of relationships in the finest way I've seen.

Who do you like?

Ideation

The fear of recovering memories of sexual abuse. Using therapy to look back and to help. Assuming everything was fine but being afraid of recovering something horrible. What do you then do with that memory?

Zombies vs Terminators.
Future film where military robotics is highly advanced, so society is completely protected by an omniscient killing system to control and monitor deviance. Everything is controlled. People are passive. But the dead are restless. The undead could be undetected. Appearing like people and tearing their heads off.

Possiblities. The robotics don't recognise zombies, thus allowing them to overwhelm.
It becomes a battle of robotics v Zombies.
The robotics turn on the humans.
Viruses.

Stages.
1. describe the society
2. what's the story?
3. whose the hero?

Memory.
Out of sight, out of mind.
The will to forget.
Forgetting about her because I don't see her.
The will to remove someone.
Getting over it.
Don't look at them and they will disappear.
What if they reappear?
What if that person or memory reared it's head in front of you.
That person or memory could loom up and terrify you, send you into shock.
Why would it return? Like a monster/beast.

(different to)
Recurring memory.
Someone keeps recurring.
The same situation.
Nothing changes.
Like an addiction.
Self destructive.

Very happy memories.